


Whatever Remains (or The Abominable Brides)

by sideris



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Episode: 2015 Xmas Sherlock Christmas Special, M/M, RPF (sort of), RPS (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 16:23:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5504576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sideris/pseuds/sideris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character. Why do people keep insisting on making him flesh? Holmes determines to find out.</p><p> </p><p>WARNING: a hint of RPS (real person slash), <b>spoilers for Sherlock Christmas Special 2015 if you haven't seen the trailers</b></p><p>DISCLAIMER: I know nothing of the real life relationships of these people. This is entirely a work of fiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever Remains (or The Abominable Brides)

In the cold, dark room, the only light is the candle in Watson’s steady hand. On the floor above us, a woman screams. It has begun.

I move out into the hallway, the floorboards creaking beneath my feet. They creak beneath Watson’s too, as he follows me. I hear an owl hoot out in the woods, beyond the winter-chilled window panes, and a shiver runs up my spine. Fear. I glance back over my shoulder. Watson is right behind me and, from his wide eyes and open mouth, I know he felt it, too. He turns. I hear him gasp - a gasp of horror and dread - then I see her, behind him. The Abominable Bride. 

Or, to be more accurate, one of them.

I had never expected to have to deal with one bride, let alone three. Love is an emotional thing, and thus opposed to the true, cold reason which I place above all things. However, as I am forever chiding Watson, it is a capital mistake to theorize before one has sufficient data, and I must confess that I had been as blind as a mole for years. I had seen, but failed to observe.

Yet, it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all, even if it takes three brides before the lesson sinks in. Now I do know, I have to finish this.

~ * ~

My awakening began six years ago.

It was not the first time I had regained consciousness uncertain of my whereabouts. In my line of work, blows to the head are not infrequent occurrences, and the possibility of poisoning can never entirely be ruled out; even the most acute mind cannot be expected to keep track of its surroundings if rendered insensible.

That day, I did as I always do in such circumstances: I ran a rapid check of my mental faculties. I dashed off the kings and queens of England in first alphabetical, then chronological order, before racing through the Periodic Table - abbreviations, atomic numbers, group names, the lot.

My flawless, unhesitating performance ruled out brain damage or narcotics.

I heaved a sigh: for when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

It had happened again.

I was not amused at the discovery, and yet I knew - from bitter and repeated experience - that railing against the injustice of it would avail me nothing. I swallowed down my anger, steadied my breathing and looked around.

The room in which I found myself was clearly a drawing room, although unlike any I had been in before. There were the usual comfortable armchairs, a sofa, occasional tables and a Persian rug. On either side of the south-facing bay window stood the usual polished mahogany cabinets, with well-used books of various shapes and sizes ranged behind their glass fronts. There was nothing extraordinary about them, nor about the black marble fireplace which dominated the room. However, amid this familiar distribution of furniture were items I was at a loss to name: a thin, dark rectangle, propped at an angle of almost ninety degrees on a cherrywood desk; a small white box affixed near the ceiling from which a point of red light blinked at regular intervals; and a second dark rectangle, much larger than the first. This hung proudly in the very centre of the wall to my right, as if it were an oil painting by an artist of some repute - and yet it was entirely black. 

My desire to gather more data was thwarted by the sudden arrival through the doorway opposite my seat of two women. Blood relatives, I quickly deduced, from their shared fairness of skin and blueness of eye: a mother and daughter, or possibly an elderly aunt and her middle-aged niece. They bore down on me with a determination I might have expected from the squareness of their jaws, but I will admit to their giving me a moment’s pause even so: until that day, my summoners had been exclusively men.

“Your tea,” the younger of the two announced, handing me the kind of ceramic mug more suited to the saloon bar of a rural hostelry than a private address in London. I took it, and waited in vain for a saucer.

“Sugar?” the older lady offered, brandishing a reassuringly traditional bowl in worked silver and a Willow pattern plate. “Biscuit?”

I had every intention of declining - I rarely permit myself food when there is work to be done, and besides, irritation is hardly conducive to good digestion - but I saw my hand reach out of its own volition. A moment later, my mouth was full of sugary crumbs and chocolate.

This, I fear, is the hazard of being not a man, but an idea, a thing spun out of the imagination, like so much gossamer on the wind: made flesh, one is rarely as one would wish the world to perceive us.

 _Not very Holmes-like_ , we thought in unison as we chewed, and I might have warmed to my new transport a little, had I not resented being there so very bitterly. When a man has died, however temporarily, in the service of his country, you might imagine his rest would be guaranteed. You would be wrong. Instead, it seems that any fool feels entitled to resurrect him.

I turned my attention to the room’s other occupants: being men, they were undoubtedly the true villains of the piece. The younger of the two was a redhead: tall, with emaciated limbs and a smile which went from ingratiating to reptilian in a heartbeat. He sat perched on a stool to my left, and beside him, the other one - a pale-faced, heavy-set fellow with hair too black and too curly for a man of his age - sprawled in a leather armchair.

This latter was the first to speak.

“Well, Ben, what d’you think?” he asked. By the rhythm of his speech and the nasal quality of his vowels I knew him to be a Scotsman, like my creator; it did not endear him to me. He raised his eyebrows, appealingly. “Can we count you in?”

 _Ben_. This time I was ‘Ben’ - if only for the time being: I have a way of taking over, as I’m sure anyone who knows - _knew_ \- me would attest.

“Who do you have in mind for Watson?” I heard Ben ask, and my blood ran cold. Bad enough that they should do this to me, but to my dear Watson as well? What indignities lay in store for him this time? I shuddered inwardly, as a parade of faces flashed before my eyes: Bruce, Stock, Hardwicke, Burke, Law, Blakely, Duvall. Buffoons, dullards, ladies’ men, _Americans_. No, I resolved, furious; they would not do it to him again. I would not let them.

The redhead leant forward in his chair. “We have a short list,” he confided, smiling and tapping the tips of his fingers against each other one at a time, like a miser gloating over his gold. “People we can see playing Watson well - but what matters to us is the relationship between Holmes and Watson. The chemistry.”

As Ben nodded sagely, I allowed him a smile. Chemistry is, after all, one of my greatest skills, and I determined, then and there, that would be none between the myself and the vessel they intended for my dear Watson. 

No chemistry at all.

~ * ~

I have lived not one life but many, and worn many different faces, although at my core I was always the same man. The same, regrettably, cannot be said of Watson. The Watsons foisted upon me on stage and screen were never my Watson, but faint shadows of the man. Each played up some virtue of his, but none embodied them all. My Watson was clever, but never so clever as to rival me. He was handsome, and widely admired, but modest; he never sought to outshine me. Furthermore, he was capable - with a gun, with his fists and with his doctorly skill. With Watson at my side, I never feared for my own life, although I frequently feared for his.

Over our various incarnations, I have fared better than my friend. When they put me in Rathbone, they put Watson in Bruce, and though that gentleman essayed Watson’s humour and loyalty, he played him as an old man - and a foolish one at that. Had Rathbone’s regard for his colleague not restrained me, I might have knocked Bruce down.

I enjoyed several outings in the person of Peter Cushing. Cushing made me genteel, grandfatherly and gently eccentric. During that interlude, Watson took the form of Nigel Stock and our existence was that of a thoroughly proper pair of English gentlemen. In Stock, I caught glimpses of my Watson’s intelligence, but little of his sense of fun. We were friends in that world, but not close ones. Meanwhile, around us, the world - and London in particular - was bright with a new sense of possibility and freedom. Hemlines rose and morals declined. Shackles were thrown off, attitudes changed but Watson and I remained the same. If that chafed at me slightly, I bore my discomfort silently for I could not explain it.

In the mid-1980s, I came closer to being the man my creator envisaged than ever before. They gave me to Jeremy Brett, a man whose whimsy and torments mirrored my own. It was easy for me to inhabit his skin, and he mine. It was easy, too, to get along with his Watsons. David Burke was a fine, handsome fellow, and younger than any Watson I’d been given before. If his good looks were more showy than those of my own dear boy, I will concede that, with me in Brett’s arresting person, together we made a compelling pair. However, though Burke had my Watson’s irreverence, his quick wit and self-possession, he lacked his heart.

His heart came to me a few years later in the person of Edward Hardwicke. His Watson was unfailingly steadfast, not just towards his Holmes, but to Brett as well. And yet, as ever, I still felt there was something missing; that there was nothing to be gained from telling our stories over and over again. 

Create something new, I raged silently at producers, writers and directors; uncover some great hidden truth. 

Be careful what you wish for.

Because now I have to finish this.

~ * ~

Physically, Benedict Cumberbatch was not wholly unlike my younger self - tall, lean, and energetic - although of entirely the wrong colouring and with a tendency to tan. His nose was nothing like mine, nor the texture of his hair, but I must concede he possessed - possesses - equally compelling eyes. I rather liked seeing them looking back at me from the mirror. The texture of his skin also pleased me: too many of my incarnations have been older men.

There were intellectual similarities too. His mind was quick, alert - constantly running away with itself. But there, the parallels came to an end. His memory was deplorable, his vocabulary inexact and he dealt in frequent and extreme profanities. And, though he had not my penchant for intoxicants, it was because he had no need of them to do himself harm. He threw himself into life, despite being dreadfully clumsy, and in my time with him, we suffered falls, cuts, bruises and life-threatening lung infections. The least said about his motorcycle, the better.

But worse than that, Benedict was a thoroughly pleasant young man. Polite to everyone, considerate and encouraging. 

I had the most terrible time with him when they were auditioning for their Watson.

~ * ~

The room was cavernous; devoid of luxury of any kind. White walls, a black, waist-high dado rail the only concession to decoration. Long, ugly tables lined the walls, as two dozen people clutching wads of paper seated themselves on graceless blue chairs. Benedict, I noted, found nothing unusual in the situation, whereas I - dragged back once again from the darkly velvet world of the never-born undead - flinched at the brightness, at the hollow echoing of my footsteps within his.

I recognized four faces in the assembled throng: the men from the London residence, the women who’d offered me tea and biscuits. If anything, they were even less formally attired than before, though a look at my own clothing - at _Benedict’s_ \- had me rapidly deducing this was _de rigueur_ in the London of … whenever it was. Making a mental note to establish the year I’d been flung into, I allowed Benedict to walk us over to the central table and sit us down.

He smiled at everyone, stood back to allow others to take their seats, acknowledging some with a word and some with a handshake. I approved of his manners. Small courtesies cost nothing, and if I cannot always be relied upon to extend them, it is through pressure of work, or the need to focus, rather than any disregard for the proper way to behave.

At last we were seated. Benedict laid a sheaf of papers on the table top, and read through the marked passages quietly to himself. The words sank into me, lighting me up from the inside. I heard my voice in his head, felt it move on his tongue.

“Her case. Obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. His first big mistake.”

Interest pricked in me, unbidden. I felt it raise the hair on the back of Benedict’s neck as it shivered up his spine - up _our_ spine - and I knew at once that I was lost - a thing of flesh and blood again; of grey matter, as well as thoughts.

The door opposite opened and someone new came into the room: the first of the would-be Watsons. He was fair-haired and blue-eyed, but too thin - arms and legs almost as wiry as my own, not muscled and well-shaped. Worse still, he was ungainly where my Watson moved with a quiet and determined grace, alert to every danger. 

The next applicant had some of Watson’s solid presence but his stance was combative, domineering and his manner decidedly lower class. He had none of Watson’s easy charm either, none of his sense of propriety.

And so it continued. Actor after actor, and turn by turn, they read lines their lines and failed to evoke even a hint of my Watson. Benedict responded respectfully to them all, and warmly to some, but I held him back, forcing him to notice how less than ideal they were, how very not like Watson. _Too submissive, too forceful, too comedic, too slow_ , I whispered to him. _This won’t work. Can’t work. Give up now. Tell them you’ve changed your mind; go home and let Watson rest in peace._ I felt a sinking sensation in his chest, and congratulated myself: soon I would have him _believe_ me.

There was a ‘break’ for ‘lunch’ - sandwiches wrapped in thin, transparent film; pieces of fruit; bottles of water. The ginger one hovered, frowning and full of nervous energy, whilst the Scotsman sat squarely at a table, scribbling notes on a sheet of paper. They exchanged a few, muttered words and shook their heads.

Watching them, I was happy: my strategy was working.

Benedict was nervous too, bouncing a leg as he chewed, the ball of his foot pressed into the linoleum floor, his heel almost but never quite hitting it, and he thought longingly of cigarettes. I immediately encouraged this craving and added to it: it had been far too long since I’d been able to smoke, and if I had to suffer being made to dance again, I considered it only fair that I should enjoy some recompense. At first he fought me, clinging to notions of denial and self-discipline, but his addiction was deep-rooted and the adhesive nicotine patch on his arm no substitute for the bitter tang of warm smoke in his mouth, the soothing rush of the drug through his veins. At length, he leapt up, excusing himself with a faltering but rapid torrent of words, then quit the building. 

His first deep inhalation from the cigarette furtively acquired from the small shop across the street made him weak with pleasure, but he smoked it hastily, not allowing himself to savour his enjoyment: he was afraid of being caught. He’d made a pact with someone, a promise he wanted to keep, I realized, as his armpits prickled with shame. It was disappointing to me, but not insurmountable. I would teach him to cease caring about what others thought. I would teach him to be _me_.

He plucked something from his pocket, unwrapped the silver paper that enfolded it, and as he headed back to the audition room, popped the thing into our mouth. Mint, eucalyptus, sugar hit me in rapid succession as we chewed. Chewed and chewed and chewed, but we did not swallow. I was beginning to feel some concern for the salubriousness of the enterprise when he hesitated before the main door, spat the now tasteless lump back into its wrapper and tossed both into a waste paper basket. I had no explanation for his behaviour at the time, but sensed it made him feel less guilty, less fearful of being discovered. Smiling at the assembled throng, he took his seat again.

The next man through the door was tall and thin - at least as tall and as thin as Benedict himself; possibly more so. Benedict knew him - I felt recognition in the acceleration of his heartbeat, in the flexing of his leg muscles as he rose to greet the newcomer who strode across the room to his designated seat, head snapping energetically from side to side, eyes shining as he took in the room, mouth fixed in a perpetual grin. He shook our hand vigorously and slapped us on the shoulder. 

“Ben! This is great, isn’t it? What an idea! Steven’s a genius. I’m so looking forward to working with him.”

There followed a flurry of words and limbs, as young Smith delivered his lines at a faster rate than my Watson ever even thought, let alone spoke. I felt quite exhausted watching him; more exhausted still as Benedict strove to outpace and out-talk him. In any successful partnership, one participant must lead and the other must follow. My Watson understood that - it did not make him any less a man in my eyes or his own - but apparently Mr Smith did not.

The room felt much quieter, and much bigger again once the swing doors had closed behind him. Benedict and I glanced in Mr Moffat’s direction and found him muttering under his breath with Mr Gatiss. Both appeared troubled, and my heart soared. I knew they had but one name left on their list - Benedict had been ticking them off as they came in - and our eyes turned expectantly to the door. It was almost all over, I told myself, and I would be able to sleep.

I should have told myself something else entirely - for example, that it is a capital error to leap to deductions without enough data - because at that moment, the doors opened and a slight figure with short, dirty blond hair entered.

My heart stopped in Benedict’s chest.

I’d been expecting them to show me my Watson as he became - muscled and confident, strong in both mind and spirit - or even as he’d been so often portrayed: stout, blustering and middle-aged. The last thing I’d been prepared for was Watson as he was when first we met. Underfed and slight, hesitant but fearless.

Yet here he was, walking towards me again, trying to mask his nervousness through sheer force of will. As ever, his bravery overwhelmed me, and I felt that old, familiar constriction of breath.

Benedict stood, instinctively expressing some of the respect Watson had always inspired in me - even if I did not always see fit to show it - and then Mr Gatiss and Mr Moffat were on their feet too, approaching us.

“I don’t think you’ve met before, have you?” Gatiss was saying, beaming first at the newcomer, then at myself. “Ben this is Martin - Martin, Ben.”

Benedict extended a hand and Martin took it, our hands fitting together so perfectly I felt a thrill of recognition run up my spine, and I closed Benedict’s fingers around Martin’s more warmly, relishing the feeling of skin, and flesh, and bones.

“A pleasure,” Martin said, smiling - but not too much. “I’ve seen your work. Obviously.” His smile turned wry, then became a grin. “You’re good.”

“You’re … good too,” Ben replied, a little breathlessly, a flush of pleasure going through him at Martin’s praise, even as he struggled to find the rights words with which to reciprocate. “I loved you in _The Night Watch_.”

Martin’s brow furrowed, as if he were trying to remember. “Oh. The one I was naked in,” he said at last, nodding. “ Right. Good choice. Well, I thought were great in _The Last Enemy_ too.”

There was a moment’s silence, in which Benedict somewhat uncomfortably recalled stripping for the cameras and unfamiliar hands on his unclothed skin, then he laughed. Still holding Martin’s hand, he squeezed it again. “Well, it’s good to have something in common, isn’t it? Shared pain: something to bond over.”

“Yeah,” Martin agreed. “Except I bet they let you have a sock on yours.”

~ * ~

It would be months before filming began. Unneeded, I went back to sleep. When I was awoken again, it was to find myself in a cold mortuary in Wales. Despite the grim location, I was flooded with a giddy rush of anticipation: I was alive, and Benedict was poised to take on a role that could change his life. No wonder my senses were heightened and my skin tingled. His enthusiasm suffused me. We were both looking forward to working with our Watsons again.

But first there was scene-setting to be ploughed through. In story-telling, character must be established, expectations built. I was surprised to find myself with a riding crop in my hand; more surprised still to find I was expected to use it. My creator may have chosen to hint at my darkness by equipping me with such a tool, but everyone who has used me since has eschewed it. It seemed Mr Moffat and Mr Gatiss were determined to break that mould: Benedict and I were to pretend to be beating a corpse with both scientific intent and a sweat-inducing amount of force. We were breathing hard by the time the director was satisfied, adrenalin coursing through us. The dangerous, predatory stillness we were required to adopt for the First Meeting scene was far from unearned.

I felt Benedict’s pulse jump at the sound of approaching footsteps. His, not mine. Though mine added to the thump of his heart when the doors opened and my Watson walked in. Both Benedict and I had to work hard on keeping silent and impassive. Benedict’s blood thrummed with the warmth of his admiration for Martin; mine at the glimpses I knew this actor, and this actor alone, would give me of my oldest and dearest friend.

~ * ~

At first, I  inhabited the real world, with its real people, only for the duration of rehearsals and filming. When Benedict spoke my lines, I was there, Watson-in-Martin admiring and teasing me, looking up at me with those dark blue eyes. During the intervening days, I slept. I was vaguely aware, through the threads of nervous comparison in Benedict’s head, that there were other pulls on me, other artistic endeavours wishing to recruit me, but I resisted them all. Benedict’s glances through the newspapers confirmed what I already knew: Jude Law was too perfectly assembled to breathe convincing life into my magnificently flawed Watson, and Lucy Liu, though talented, lacked Watson’s essential masculinity. In Martin Freeman, I had all the Watson I could hope for outside the printed page. So I slept out the great gap of time he was away and, each time I awoke, Martin’s face was more familiar; the sound of his voice more sweet to my ear.

The pilot was well received; a series commissioned. There followed interviews, press junkets, and appearances on television. I seemed forever in Benedict’s body, and forever in Watson’s presence. I am rarely happy except when working on a case, but I will confess that, in early 2010, I was certainly content.

~ * ~

Benedict and Martin had chemistry from the start, both on- and off-screen. Martin made Benedict laugh, Martin was charmed by Benedict’s guileless admiration and the warm regard in which they held each other deepened into a close and caring friendship. The work often brought them together outside of rehearsals, and because my partnership with Watson has always been iconic, people rarely expected one of us without the other. Thus, I would suddenly find myself in television studios, my words in Benedict’s mouth, my thoughts in his head; beside me, Watson resided intermittently in Martin. We four dined out together; we went to parties. We laughed, drank champagne and dressed in similarly outlandish clothes: cloth caps, striped jumpers and risible scarves. On more than one occasion, we publicly embraced and, after so many decades of maintaining stiff spines and stiff upper lips, I found it joyous to return to the physically affectionate friendship our Victorian selves had enjoyed. One notable evening, Martin sat my Watson close to me and placed Watson’s hand upon my thigh. Benedict thrilled at the intimacy of this gesture, but quickly became accustomed to Martin taking such liberties. I was glad for him. I was glad for us both.

Gradually, I began to linger in the real world, unwilling to let it go. The twenty-first century held so much of interest to me: new crime, and new criminals; new police methods and the same old faults. How could I not want to stay? I have always been about the Work.

~ * ~

On some of my real world outings with Watson-in-Martin, the delightful Miss Abbington joined us. It came as no surprise to discover Martin had a wife in all but name. My Watson was married for a time himself but I rarely think about Mary. It was a sorrowful time. She died.

However, if I took Amanda’s presence in Martin’s life with equanimity, there was another domestic arrangement that came as a definite shock.

With filming of all three episodes of Series One complete, and Martin away in New Zealand on some other project, I had returned to my customary limbo. Time has no meaning there, so when suddenly I found myself plunging breathlessly into dark tunnels, the blood pumping through my veins, I had no idea where I was, nor why, nor when. All I knew was that I felt a great urgency to get to Martin - to _Watson_ \- before it was too late.

There were obstacles all around me, although I could not see them: weights that tugged at my hands and feet. The more I struggled to be free of them, the more they pinned me down. I felt something soft and thick wrap itself around my arms and legs; a wad of cloth was pressed into my face. I could not get to Watson. I could not breathe. I would die. Worse still, so would he.

A terrible, gut-born howl rent the darkness, and a light snapped on. As I wrestled my confusion, Benedict slowly surfaced from the fog of his sleep.

“Ben?” A woman’s voice. A sleep-roughened woman’s voice. She was lying beside us.

“Fuck. Sorry. Nightmare.” Benedict rolled onto his side, and opened his eyes.

I caught a brief impression of long, loose, blond hair and large blue eyes. A naked shoulder. Benedict reached out to touch her, and my gorge rose. 

I was gone before there was contact between them.

~ * ~

In the weeks that followed, I had a sense that was something wrong, and yet I could not determine its cause. Martin had Amanda - children, too. Why should Benedict sharing his life with Olivia irk me, when the two situations were essentially the same? It is true that I have never been a whole-souled admirer of womankind - the fair sex was ever Watson’s department - but Olivia was as charming a young lady as any I had met, and she was never clinging. My distaste was unwarranted, I finally concluded. Their relationship was none of my business and whenever Benedict’s thoughts turned to her, I would discreetly melt away.

It was a strategy to which I adhered with such resolution that it came as a shock to awaken one spring day to find her gone. Benedict was grieved by her loss; I felt the nagging ache of it inside him, but the only form he would allow it to take was a pastel-blanketed but empty cot.

He did not remain alone for long. Unlike me, he is not given to long bouts of melancholy. He is outgoing and optimistic, and there quickly followed a succession of new women in his life: designers, models, actresses and theatre directors. His taste leant toward self-possessed, self-sufficient ladies and, in public, what little physical contact occurred was limited to the taking of arms and the occasional chaste peck upon the cheek. Of what happened between them in private, I am unaware. When _Sherlock_ was not the focus of his dealings, I had no reason to be there.

~ * ~

The life of a fictional character is not like yours. There is no start, no end, no linear progress through time. Our stories leap back and forth; are taken up and laid down again as our readers see fit. My life in particular has been episodic. I had no childhood, but sprang into life, fully formed, aged twenty-seven. Furthermore, I was created a detective. If there is no case, there is no Sherlock Holmes. My existence has always revolved around the work. What else is there to live for? Certainly not family, nor love. People may be drawn to me, but I have no use for a wife or paramour. It is always the work with me, a fact that Watson was alone in seeing: every other biographer who has taken it upon himself to show me to the world has seen my lack of interest in the softer passions as a failing or, worse still, a mask. Underneath, they are convinced, I am like them, and perforce subject to the same desires. Thus it is that, in some quarters, my celibacy has become a more interesting mystery than any tale contrived by my author, and my would-be apologists have fallen over themselves to solve it. Robert Doherty made me a drug addict; Nicholas Meyer a man traumatized by a childhood memory of stumbling upon his mother engaged in sexual intercourse with a man other than his father. I have been a manic depressive, or too old to be interested in matters of the flesh or heart. When Mr Moffat and Mr Gatiss first resurrected me, I was much relieved. It seemed their explanation for my lack of a personal life was that I was simply too ill-mannered and too self-centred for normal human companionship and, throughout the first series of their _Sherlock_ , I insulted and dismissed, snapped and deceived. I was, in short, insufferable and inhuman. It suited me.

In rehearsal for the second series, I began to suspect that there was some other plan afoot. Messrs Moffat and Gatiss were keen to tackle the ‘big’ stories, as they called them: the Woman, the Hound, the Fall. Moffat proudly announced to the press that the audience would see  ‘three different sides to Sherlock ... Sherlock and love, Sherlock and fear and Sherlock and death.’  Inch by inch they humanised me; gave me feeling and passion; made me love and despair. And yet, there was still no direction to this that I could readily discern. No overarching explanation of what made me _me_. At the end of the series, I was still Sherlock Holmes, still rational, still taking the only course open to me to defeat the criminal network of my foes. The only obviously important thread in my biography as told by Moffat and Gatiss was the care and concern I had for Watson. There was nothing new or disturbing in that. My friendship with Watson has ever been the one fixed point in my changing worlds. Series 2 ended with me ‘dying’, not to rid the world of the fiendish Moriarty, but to save Watson’s life and, in the autumn of 2011, I returned to my slumbers.

~ * ~

Waking up is always a shock, even at the hands of the gentlest of readers. Existence hurts, and awareness is like a punch to the stomach. In a television studio, the shock is horrible, but this time the jolt to my system was crueller still. I - _we_ \- were under the bright lights of a fitting room, women with deft hands running tape-measures over us: shoulders, arms, inside leg. All around stood rails of clothing: gentlemen’s formal wear, bright dresses, hats, coats and shoes. Fingers fluttered like moths at my wrists and throat: my dresser, her perfume another brutal sensory assault. I needed something less demanding to help me adjust …

Across the room, Martin was being helped into a dark morning coat. His dresser fussed with the fit, tugging at his cuffs and lapels, then stood back for a better view. Martin squared his shoulders, raised his chin, and suddenly he was Watson, so utterly and completely it took my breath away. He caught my eye, but it was Martin who grinned.

“No need to look so gob-smacked, Cumberbatch,” he said. “You know damn well I’m a natty dresser.”

My hands became Benedict’s. They tugged at the frayed hem of the t-shirt he was wearing and he grinned back. “Are you trying to say I’m a tatty one?”

“If the ear-hat fits, mate,” Martin said, with a wink, and submitted to his dresser’s attentions once more.

Benedict’s dresser came back from the clothing rail and presented him with a morning coat of his own. We took it from her and put it on. He suffered the hands that smoothed the fine wool garment over his back and arms with good humour, but I flinched. Watson was the only person I could ever bear to touch me.

The coat was removed, and my hat measurement taken. This was unusual. The hats I’d worn in _Sherlock_ were all One Size, and deliberately chosen to fit badly: they were a _joke_. My confusion was short-lived: I was handed a grey wool felt top hat with a black silk band. I was being attired for a wedding.

My memories of the read-through came roaring back. I was to be Watson’s best man. I would deliver the most curious, complicated speech. I felt Benedict’s abdomen tighten. _The speech. Pages of it! So much to remember. So many emotional notes to hit …_ Dizziness overwhelmed me; Benedict swayed on his feet. We sat down on a nearby chair and an eager young woman with tight blond curls and an over-sized green pullover scurried off to fetch us a glass of water, despite his assurance he was all right.

As was I. I had momentarily been disconcerted by Moffat and Gatiss’ total disregard for the chronology of my life as my creator wrote it, that was all. In the world - in the _worlds_ \- with which I was familiar, Watson married before the Reichenbach Falls, not after, and Mary Morstan had died before my return.

The eager young woman returned and we sipped our water. Mary - _Amanda_ \- raised her arms above her head and two wardrobe assistants eased an off-white gown down her body. It slithered over the faint curve of her hips, and cupped her high, round breasts. Even without makeup, she glowed in it.

“What d’you think, Ben?” she asked, turning full circle to let him see the lace and silk detail of it.

For a moment, neither of us could speak. Martin’s not-wife had become Watson’s bride, and she looked perfect in the role.

“Beautiful,” Benedict managed at last, and I slipped away.

~ * ~

I was the only one not surprised when Mary shot me. I am Sherlock Holmes, after all, and it is my business to see things other people don’t. I had, for months, been noticing the myriad little clues that it was coming. Besides, this Mary was not the Mary penned by my creator, not the quasi-obligatory gentleman’s wife. She had purpose, an arc of her own, even though the series was, in essence, about _me_. Somehow, I realized, our stories fitted together, and this would be the climax of our entanglement, the point where everything had to change.

Her bullet hit me square in the chest, knocked me backwards off my feet. The watching world saw an assassin but in that moment, I began to see something else. Something far worse than a desperate woman with a gun.

~ * ~

I left him. He’d chosen her. She was his wife, after all, and the mother of his unborn child. I did what I had to do to keep him safe and left. The day was cold and bleak. We said our good-byes on a stretch of hard, grey tarmac under a hard grey sky. The only colour was the triumphant red of her coat.

The East Wind took me. I let it. 

Something else brought me back. Stories without a resolution never end but I had no idea how to act as my own chronicler so, once again, I sought refuge in sleep.

~ * ~

It was summer when I next awoke. A fierce sun was blazing down on me, raising beads of perspiration on my neck and the small of my back. From the pungent combination of expensive perfume and second-hand garlic surrounding me, I deduced I was in France. Before me, two vigorous young men in sports clothing were smashing a ball at one another across a clay court. I was at a French tennis match, and an important one: the vast stadium was completely full. My mind, however, was not on the game, but oddly preoccupied with thoughts of marriage. I shifted uncomfortably on the hard plastic seat on which I was seated, that aspect of my nature Watson has called a ‘catlike love of personal cleanliness’  deeply offended by the dampness of my own skin. Thoughts of the matrimonial bed rose, unbidden. _Should I ever marry, Watson, I should hope to inspire my wife with some feeling-_

Without warning, my hand was grasped, and gently squeezed. “All right?” a soft voice asked. “Want some water?”

I turned to look at her and caught a fleeting impression of a slender woman in her mid-thirties wearing a thin, floral dress, but before I could observe her with my usual, cold precision, my eyes became Benedict’s. She was the loveliest thing I - _he_ \- had ever seen: bright, blue eyes, sparkling with humour and intelligence, clear skin, dark and glossy hair. Most appealing of all, was the way she looked at him. 

He squeezed her hand in return. “No, I’m fine,” he said, meaning it, and smiled. A strange warmth that had nothing to do with the heat of the day spread through me, and my heart seemed to swell inside my chest. At the same time, a curious tingling danced under my skin. With a start, I realized this peculiar sensation must be love.

_Should I ever marry, Watson, I should hope to inspire my wife with some feeling which would prevent her being walked off by a housekeeper when my corpse was lying within a few yards of her._

I thought of Watson, then - of Martin Freeman’s Watson - who’d battled through the throng of people specifically instructed to keep him at bay, despite the blow to his head occasioned by the cyclist who knocked him to the ground, in order to touch my corpse as it lay, bleeding and broken, upon the pavement outside of Bart’s.

I had inspired that feeling in him.

The thought was more than I could process. The sun was too hot, and Sophie too close. I fled back to my dark.

~ * ~

_The stage is set. The curtain rises._

I am in Benedict again, the two of us a single entity. 221B is almost exactly as I first remember it; he is wearing a dressing gown that could almost be my own. Under it, I am in the kind of clothing I last wore in 1895.

The scene shifts. We are outside. It is night, and cold.

“It cannot be true, Holmes - it cannot,” Watson-in-Martin cries, and I want to believe that so ardently, I agree.

“No, it can’t,” I say, because we are standing at the entrance to a vast, dark maze. If we enter, though we may find our way out again, I know things will never be the same. _We_ will never be the same. I do not want this. Watson does not need this. It is too dangerous.

The scene shifts again. We are cocooned together in a brougham, the horses’ hoof-beats ringing hollow on the carriageway as we rattle through the night towards a blood-red dawn.

“Well, Holmes?” Watson says. “Surely you must have some theory.”

It’s a taunt, designed to mask his own fear. He knows as well as I that we are heading towards something we may not be able to handle. I think of all that’s gone before, of the mysteries I could not solve.

“We all have a past, Watson,” I say, grimly. “Ghosts. They are the shadows that define our every sunny day.”

 _Fear is wisdom in the face of danger; it is nothing to be ashamed of._ But I have felt both. Fear and shame. They ruined us.

Mr McKinnon calls “Cut!” and advises that a twenty-break will be required for adjustments to lighting levels. The warm smell of frying bacon suddenly imposes itself upon my consciousness and Benedict’s stomach rumbles. It has been a long, cold night. We stride towards the catering trailer briskly and with growing hunger.

Watson is already there, chewing. He has a half-eaten floury roll in his hand and fine smudges of white dusting his lower lip and Watson’s false moustache.

“Catherine’s going to kill you,” Benedict says, with a nod towards the errant flour. “Continuity will kill you.”

“Sod ‘em,” Martin replies, taking another bite. “I’m starving.”

He chews in silence, with single-minded focus, and there is none of the usual banter between us. Morning may be coming, but the air is still cold. Benedict consumes tea and toast; they do little to warm me.

~ * ~

There is no respite. I am ever-present. We film for long hours, spend an age in make-up and wardrobe; run through our lines over and over again. The more time Benedict spends with Martin, the greater the change I see. There is less Watson-Holmes camaraderie than before. When Martin looks up at Benedict, he’s no longer rapt, and gone are the casual touches that previously warmed our exchanges. Their friendship is still there, but it is a cool thing, like ash after a fire, and there’s something left hanging in the air, unsaid.

When, later, we break for lunch, Benedict decides to seek him out.

Martin is sitting in the corner of the small room in a domestic residence that, for the purpose of this shoot, has been designated a canteen. He has a sandwich on a white paper plate and a flimsy plastic cup of tea. The room is busy; Benedict pushes us through with difficulty, distributing apologies and smiles as he goes. He doesn’t smile at Martin, nor does he occupy the vacant chair at his side but instead stands in front of him, worrying at the outer seam of our trousers with his fingers.

“I don’t want to hassle you,” he says, “but any idea yet if you’ll be able to make it? To the wedding?”

Martin’s jaw works and a faint blush comes to his cheeks. He shakes his head. “No. Sorry, no. Should have said so earlier, I know, but I hoped …” He shrugs. He’s still wearing Watson’s moustache and Watson’s brown bowler, and there’s something in his eyes that makes me want Benedict to clasp his shoulder and tell him it’s of no consequence, but he doesn’t.

Martin swallows. “The kids. They’ve got a thing … I, uh, have to be there.”

“Of course you have,” Benedict says, hurriedly. “They’re your _kids_. I can’t say I’m not disappointed, Martin, but I do understand.”

The light in Martin’s eyes is suddenly Watson’s. “I wish … if things were different …”

“Me too,” Benedict replies.

~ * ~

We have to return to the maze: the lighting was wrong. I have been blundering about in the dark for too long.

Pistols drawn, we dive into the maze together - Watson and I, Benedict and Martin. She’s there. She’s alway been there - the bride, the abominable bride - ever since the spring of 1889. Death did not cause her to fade away.

She glides towards us, inexorable, her wedding gown tinged yellow in the half-light, the veil drawn down upon her face. It matters not that her features are obscured: I know who she is. She is every pretence that has ever stood between Watson and me. She is my cowardice made manifest.

I had promised to keep him safe, but in the end, I abandoned him; withdrew to Sussex and let him pass beyond my ken. I have no-one to blame save myself: no-one made me like this. _I_ made me. I made me cold and logical - the most perfect reasoning machine, because I was afraid, beyond all reason, of a little grit. I see that now. She has forced me to - _they_ have. All three of them.

There is little point standing around in the dark any longer. Not now we’re in the twenty-first century.

I let my hand steal into Watson’s and give it a reassuring shake. The situation is well within my powers and I _will_ finish this.

**Author's Note:**

> Many beta thanks to scribblemoose


End file.
